


Meanness Set To Music

by redcoatfollower



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 21:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4278918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcoatfollower/pseuds/redcoatfollower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death of a best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meanness Set To Music

He had always referred to her as a she, because that's what you did with cars. It felt like a lifetime ago when Barry the mechanic had called her a "bitch", but a bitch she certainly was. She was strong and agile, her voice ranging from a gentle purr to a banshee like scream when the nitro hit her. She had been used, abused, and every time, like a phoenix she was born again.

He hadn't had a woman in his life for years now, just her, all of the comfort he needed wrapped up in that dented, worn body. He slept curled up in the front seat, his beard and hair growing longer with each passing day until he was unrecognizable to even himself. But she still loved him, still started on the first try, still dug her thick rubber tires into the sand when he pressed the accelerator. She had never failed him.

The dark metal, once shiny and sleek, had lived a lifetime in that wasteland. He would repair her in the darkness, the hazy red moon his only flashlight, one eye always watching the endless horizon. He'd stop and siphon the precious resource from destroyed gas tanks, lovingly dripping it into the large canisters he had installed where the trunk should be. Sometimes, most times really, she was the only one that got any real nourishment.

She had been the only one to see him cry. Her worn interior held him when he woke up from the nightmares with his wife's name on his lips. They rode together, eating up the endless miles, her voice soothing in the constant silence. She had sent many a scavenger to their ultimate end, metal scraping metal, always the strongest, always the fastest. Always the best.

She almost died in the waste, and so did he, as they turned over and over again, plowing a trench into the sand that caused crazed, excited hollering from their pursuers. He was stunned but knew he had to leave, had to get out of the car, had to abandon her if he wanted to survive. She whispered to him that it was alright and almost begged him to go, and he tried, god, he had tried. But with a bleeding head, surely concussed, he didn't stand a chance against the war party. And they took him and her, and marked them both with their bitter touch.

He saw her again on the Fury Road, stretching her legs, hot bursts of spray being spit directly into the blowers until flames poured from her tailpipes. They had done a good job with her, but he doubted their painted white skin touched her as delicately. They hadn't lived through hell together. They hadn't nearly died again and again together. Their affair was young and foolish but he was married to her, had birthed a lifetime of suffering with her. He had cried "That's mine!" into the wind but over the roar of the engines he doubted anyone heard him.

She met her end between the fleeing War Rig, and its wild pursuers. He watched her die as the woman with the mechanical arm, the Imperator, held onto him from the side of the truck, his fingers almost brushing the line of burning sand beneath him. She was all engine noise and flames as she went, and in his head he repeated the words "the bitch is born to run."

The War Boys had a habit of sacrificing themselves and he believed that was exactly what she had done. They did it to reach Valhalla, a place where everything there would be shiny again, alive, chrome.

And in his madness, and eventually his grief, he hoped it was true.


End file.
